


Sleeping Monster

by blue_crow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sleeping Beauty (2011)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, One-Shot, PWP, implied unrequited incestuous feelings, somnaphilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_crow/pseuds/blue_crow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes first visited a brothel full of sleeping prostitues in Australia, but he left unsatisfied. Upon returning to England, he visits another one, and the madame promises she has exactly what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Monster

It had been after an economic conference in Australia that he'd first discovered the joys of sleeping beauties. At first, the discretion had appealed to him, for what sleeping tongues could wag?, but he'd come to appreciate the experience as meditation. The shallow rise and fall of sleeping chests, the placid expressions of those asleep, and the invitation to explore and fondle all at his own leisure helped him forget the burdens he carried on his shoulders. The madame of the house had given him a referral for a similar brothel in London, one that she said might cater more specifically to his tastes.

Her knowing smile had spoken volumes. She had seen him browsing her catalogue of merchandise, flipping to the back to search for slim, pale young men with dark hair. _There's no judgement here_ , she'd said, but he wasn't so sure she'd have said that if she'd known why he had such specific tastes. He'd settled then for a girl with dark ringlets and long legs and had spent the night kissing along them, brushing her taut nipples with his tongue. He'd slept beside her, holding her to his chest like a possession. Only after he'd awaken had he dared to peek beneath her eyelids, and the emerald green he'd found had almost put him off the whole experience. 

The service in London promised a much better match, though they said they too couldn't guarantee the eyes. It was best not to look, the madame said. Best to preserve the fantasy.

He arrived on time for the appointment, wearing one of his best suits as if on a date. Of course, only the madame would see him, but Mycroft appreciated procedural details. The wool felt solid on his thighs, reminding him of how entitled he was to this release.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. _Sherrinford_ ," the madame said as he stepped out of his limousine. "I hope you're in good health?"

"Of course, thank you," he said, closing the door behind him and following her into the old country manor that housed the brothel. "I hope that you found my requests simple enough."

"I believe we've done well, though of course, if you're anything less than completely satisfied, you're welcome to refuse charge." She led him to one of the house's bedrooms, her heels surprisingly soft on the hardwood floor. Her manicured hand turned the crystal doorknob, and she stood aside to invite him in.

A mahogany headboard and deep green silk sheets framed a bony shoulder and pale cheek. A quick assessment showed the sleeper to be a good four inches shorter than he'd hoped, though the height hardly mattered when they were horizontal. The skin was adequately pale, and his hair even darker than he'd hoped, but shorter. There were no curls to tangle his fingers in, to tug back. With that coloring, his eyes would be brown. Even so, the resemblance was there, at least with his face half-submerged in the pillow.

"Yes," he breathed, his body stirring at the sight. "Yes, this will do nicely."

"He is yours to use as you like," she said. "I ask only that you keep his airflow accessible."

"Yes, of course," he agreed. "Penetration?"

"Usually, no," she said, eyes following the sleeper's legs through the sheets. "But in this case, there's been a special dispensation. Use him as you like." 

The answer was as unexpected as it was curious. A quick study of her features indicated it was unusual- and she wasn't about to tell him why.

"Well, I'll leave you. If you need anything, there's a bell by the door," she indicated a small touch sensor, "and you have until 8 in the morning." 

And then she was gone, leaving Mycroft alone in the room with a drugged young man that belonged to him for the next eight hours.

He wanted to savor every second. First he removed his jacket, folding it over the back of a chair in the room, and sat to unlace and remove his shoes. He watched as the bony shoulder rolled with the man's shallow breathing. He removed his mobile phone and wallet from his pockets, unbuckled his watch, and at the last, removed his wedding ring and placed it on the chair as he stood.

Slowly, teasing himself, he pulled the sheet down, exposing the lightly muscled back. The shoulders weren't nearly well-developed enough, and he was shocked to notice the state of the man's body- it was covered in scar tissue layered upon scar tissue. Years of caning, whipping, branding and tortures too foreign to place mapped out along that fair skin. Of course, he thought. He was allowed to penetrate already damaged goods.

His lips curled in revulsion, and he was about to call the madame back, when the young man stirred in his sleep, tossing onto his back.

James Moriarty.

Instantly he checked the shallow pulse of the man beneath him to ensure that- yes, Moriarty was actually under the influence, that he was actually drugged. How had he let his identity slip enough that the criminal mastermind had caught word of his fetish?

His next action was to comb the room for bugs. He inspected every crevice and corner, probing with his smallest finger, all the while glancing back to the man on the bed whose peaceful expression was so different from the photographs Mycroft had seen. His breathing was steady, and sometimes he let out a soft moan in his sleep. Mycroft found a tiny wireless camera, almost carelessly placed in the moulding of the headboard, though whether that belonged to the brothel or the sleeping man he wasn't sure. Either way, he crushed it with the heel of his shoe and resumed the search, though he found nothing else.

He paced before the bed in his sock feet. Why hadn't he called his car, called the madame, left the premises? The tranquil rise and fall of Moriarty's chest was infuriating, particularly for how it ruined his own peace of mind.

Suddenly he found himself on top of the smaller man, pressing his fingers into his throat, finding that they dug into faded bruises already present. He squeezed roughly which brought forth a shallow moan, but the eyelashes remained still on his cheeks. He was full of a heady, intoxicating idea- he could do anything he wanted to James Moriarty.

Perhaps he wanted to die. It was a sobering thought, as he increased pressure just to watch the man whimper, feeling his body stir beneath him. He had more than enough reason to want him dead, and with the scars the man wore… he'd been skirting the edge of death for some time now. Perhaps he wanted to die, and he wanted to bring Mycroft down with him.

He pulled the sheet down further to let himself see James's whole body. His chest, too, was pocked with scars, and his wrists showed familiar scarring characteristics of handcuffs and zip ties. He wondered if James enjoyed this torture, or if it was part of some training program to help him hold up under interrogation. He knew his people had struggled to break this mastermind; they should have known that he'd bred tolerance.

Even so, his long, pale legs, stirring cock and dark pubic hair were more inspiring than Mycroft had ever imagined. He wasn't thinking about anyone but James as he trailed a hand from his knee to his upper thigh, skirting the inside of is leg only to discover that he'd prepared himself for penetration. He bit back a needy sound, himself. 

James hadn't just allowed penetration, he was begging for it. 

He couldn't restrain himself from sliding a finger inside him, marveling at how tight and hot he felt, how ready, and how those slim hips canted up against his touch just by the millimeter. There was every reason in the world not to proceed with this, not to be aroused by this man that was so intimately involved with his younger brother, but that didn't stop him from stroking his prostate, watching James's cock fill.

Mycroft slid a finger past James's lips, pulling them open and marveling at the visual as he probed inside him. He knew how those soft lips would feel around his cock, were James awake and willing, just as soft and pliant as they were against his fingers. He withdrew them, only to press his own mouth to his, sliding his tongue in and playing it against the mastermind's leaden one. It was his imagination that James's legs spread invitingly beneath him, that his lips parted further to urge him on.

It was all he could do to pull back long enough for a condom, and he'd barely slid it on before he was pushing James onto his stomach, spreading his legs and forcing himself into that slicked hole. For a good few seconds he forced that devil's smirk into the pillow, but then turned his head to the side, unwilling to play a part in whatever life-ending game James might have imagined. He wasn't proud of his needs, but he was powerless before them. He slid a hand beneath the two of them to stroke his cock, squeezing and jerking like it belonged to him. 

James's unconscious body came before his did, tensing with a soft sigh from between his lips that inspired Mycroft anew. He pulled away to force James onto his back again, smearing his come up over his stomach as he forced into him again, picturing those slim legs hooked around his own hips, clinging as eagerly as a fresh bride. Shallow breaths drew in, raising his chest, and Mycroft slicked a hand in the soiled bedsheets and forced it over James's nose and mouth, watching him fight for breath in his sleep as he finished inside him.

The first order of business was to clean himself, and he tied up and tossed the condom in the bin. He knew he should re-dress himself, that he should leave and pretend he'd never done this, that he barely recognized James Moriarty, but if he'd had self-control regarding this matter he'd have stopped himself long ago. Instead, he slid out of his trousers, folding them and placing them on top of his wedding ring, removing his suspenders and vest along with them, and then returned to bed, arm around Moriarty's waist. He held the consulting criminal against his body, because he'd paid for this release.

When his mobile phone awakened him at 6 AM, he woke deeply refreshed. James Moriarty stayed still, save from the shallow motion of his chest.

He dressed himself, piece by piece, replacing his cufflinks and carefully tying his shoes. He'd satisfied himself the previous night; there was no need to indulge in Moriarty's body again. Only a single, nagging desire remained.

Once dressed, he sat on the side of the bed, leaning over the sleeping man, not for a kiss, but to peel back his eyelid, expecting to see his bottomless brown eyes.

Instead, he was met with startling blue-green contacts that matched his brother's eyes exactly.

**Author's Note:**

> While working on another Mycroft/Jim piece that involved post-Reichenbach survival and Grimm's Fairy Tales, I remembered I'd never seen the Australian erotic Sleeping Beauty and I was struck by the formality and structure of the fetish presented within. This happened a lot faster than my usual process, so apologies for anything that's rough within.


End file.
